


No Poetry: A Johnlock Post-Reichenbach Reunion 221B

by reluctantabandon



Series: reluctantabandon's 221Bs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:16:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This collection is a work in progress. Wrote my first 221B for the tumblr Sherlock Secret Santa of 2012 and was hooked.  I'll post them as they are finished.</p>
<p>As always, these characters belong not to me but to the immortal ACD and to Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Poetry: A Johnlock Post-Reichenbach Reunion 221B

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bluepuffycat for the tumblr Sherlock Secret Santa 2012, my very first 221B. Happy Holidays! I think. =)  
> The title is from “Tonight no poetry will serve,” by Adrienne Rich. Full text in the notes at the end.

Recidivist, revisionist history throttles him.

The coat hangs on the back of the living room door. Laptop open on the coffee table, screen blue in the darkness, mute testament to some presence. Dragging in late, spent, after a day of flu and excess, John drops his bag with a startled thump. No breath, he can’t breathe; terrible exultant hope clutches his throat.

A golden slice of light on the dull hall tile and John’s heart stutters, restarts; hammer in his chest, blood a siren croon in his ears. One hand out, he eases the bedroom door open, stops. Warm light pools across marble-pale skin; dark eyelashes flutter at his inadvertent sound, soft like a fist to the stomach. 

“John,” a deep, dark voice, rough with disuse; strange to his ears, so familiar it hurts. Throat clears, tries again, barely a whisper this time. “John.”

His eyes, his face, oh, need stripped bare. No masks left. They try to fit three years into the circle of their arms.

I buried you. My heart died with you and now it’s alive again. Feel it beating, joyous, for you.

Long fingers caress his face. Lips, uncertain at first, find each other home.

Fears will wait. This, now, always: I love you; I love you; I love you; you, you only, first, last, and best.

**Author's Note:**

> _______________________________  
> Notes: This fic leapt from my head at 5:30 am, fully formed, culmination after the idea seeded itself a week ago while assembling a final exam. Took me about an hour to write. Here’s the full text of the poem by one of our incomparable contemporary poets.
> 
> Tonight No Poetry Will Serve  
> by Adrienne Rich
> 
> Saw you walking barefoot  
> taking a long look  
> at the new moon’s eyelid  
> later spread  
> sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair  
> asleep but not oblivious  
> of the unslept unsleeping  
> elsewhere  
> Tonight I think  
> no poetry  
> will serve
> 
> Syntax of rendition:  
> verb pilots the plane  
> adverb modifies action  
> verb force-feeds noun  
> submerges the subject  
> noun is choking  
> verb disgraced goes on doing  
> now diagram the sentence
> 
> (2007)


End file.
